Banks to Battlefields

Saturday, August 24

I’d never been so happy to enter a French Foreign Legion base. Typical emotions
encountered upon crossing the metal gates of any one of the Legion regiments
can range from dread to disillusionment and no further. Joy? Now that was a new
one. The contrast between this, my final week in the Legion, and my first
traversing of the security barrier of the headquarters of La Légion Étrangère
was incalculable. Then, hand trembling, watching my passport being torn from my
humid grip, not knowing what would happen next. Now, strolling out past the
security gate with a casual nod to the corporal chef on duty, not……..knowing
what would happen next either, actually.

It’s been exactly two weeks since I left the Legion, and
only now have I plucked up the courage to write this, my final blog. The medals
have been packed away, the parting photos held briefly on the iPhone for a few
nostalgic glances before being committed to the annals of hard-drive history.
Here I sit in my new house in Dublin, anxious beyond words to advance to the
next chapter of my life but incapable of doing so, until this one has been
properly, officially closed.

That last week at Aubagne, the headquarters of the French
Foreign Legion, was one of the most surreal of the past five years. And that’s
saying something. I had arrived with a Moldovan colleague, with whom I’d begun
my adventure in Aubagne back in 2008. Once back at HQ, we encountered two more
friends from basic training who had each embarked on different journeys over
the course of their contracts. Four, in total. Four, from an original forty-six.
Granted, three guys had left through the front gates a week earlier, which
brought the total number of 5-and-out to seven. Seven who completed our
contracts and moved on. About eight or so raised their hands to leave before
the end of basic training. Following on from that, and by our own more-or-less
accurate calculations, another twelve or so had deserted over the course of the
five years. That leaves more than half of our co-trainees having signed on to
continue their careers.

The atmosphere amongst the departing was one of calm and
light-heartedness, with a grand total of eighteen soldiers wrapping up careers
of varying lengths, the youngest of course being ourselves, clocking out at
five, the oldest being an Adjudant Chef who managed to rack up a staggering 35
years of service. Respect was maintained among the ranks but with a far less
formal air. Handshakes were heartier, jokes more honestly laughed at, everyone
buzzing with excitement at closing the book on their legion stories. The week
was spent sauntering from office to office, confirming our decisions, our
personal details, our future plans, our addresses abroad to forward mail to,
and so on.

I’m sorry, but fuck this!

All these banal details, bland, lifeless descriptions, this isn’t how it was
when I first started this blog. There was more life to my writing, more
self-indulgence in the images and pictures painted by my oftentimes-convoluted
words and phrases. And to be honest, I miss that. I miss being submerged in the
Legion, not knowing day from night, forward from back, down from up. Paddling
uncertainly through a murky abyss, a crushing yet strangely comforting pressure
enveloping me from all sides. It was peaceful down there, in its own chaotic
way. The sharks would bump but never bite, the electric eels slither slimily
through legs and around necks, toying and teasing without ever delivering that
fatal shock. It was a weird sort of rush, to delude oneself into thinking it
was dangerous for the sole purpose of excitement and adrenaline, only to
unwaveringly recognize the security it provided, those deep, dark murky waters
of the abyss, where every rock peppering the ocean floor was painted a
brilliant white, all bundled together to spell “Honneur et Fidelité”.

Two weeks ago, I broke the surface and crawled through white-crest waves
crashing down around me, relentlessly calling me back in to the ocean, sweeping
my hands out from under me, rolling backwards and pulling desperately at me. I
made it to dry land, peeled off my wetsuit hoping for a long-overdue chance to
stretch and breathe. Instead I was met with a rush of cold, a goose-pimpling
chill to replace the envelope of cosy deep-sea pressure. Joining the French
Foreign Legion was the hardest thing I had ever done, until it came time to
leave.

Not that I was ever tempted to stay. Five is five, no more no less, that’s what
I said because that’s what I meant. That certainty, however, doesn’t cushion
the blow as that cold rush of air hits your bare skin and you realize
“I’m out!”. I’m out, on the outside, the gates clanked shut behind me,
resonating in defiance at another soul lost, another man down, another Képi
shoved unceremoniously into the back of a dusty wardrobe in some rented flat in
some far-away city, far from the Legion, far from the sea.

Make no mistake: these past five years have been the most
incredible, illuminating, heart-soaring and soul crushing, intensely beautiful,
boring and bone-shuddering of my entire life. Every second, every minute, every
hour, day, month and year of my service morphed into one single entity the
moment I crossed those iron gates for the very last time. I have loved every
second, minute, hour, day, month and year, because I have loved my time as a
legionnaire so profoundly, so completely, and with more pride than one can
imagine. I’ve met some of the most remarkable people this planet has to offer,
not only because of what they did before joining the Legion, but because of
having served therein. It is a unique and exclusive brotherhood, and in spite
of my differences with many of them, brothers they shall forever remain.

This blog has been an amazing adventure, and through it I’ve
grown immensely as a human being, as a soldier, a writer and a general GC
(Kiwis, take note). I’ve thoroughly enjoyed corresponding with the numerous
messages and comments directed my way. Never seen as a crutch in which to
embellish my oftentimes mundane exploits, I’ve found writing this blog to have
been more like a strong cupped hand beneath the sole of my boot, pushing me
upward to a superior vantage point, my sole responsibility to holler down to
you, the reader, calling out everything I see from across the great high wall
that encircles this magnificent institution. I hope I have served you all as
well as I have the nation of France, her people, and of course my fellow
brothers-in-arms.

The next chapter of my life lies as yet unwritten, as shall
this blog from this point onwards and forever more. I would like to thank every
single person who has laid eyes on my words from the very bottom of my heart.
It has been quite a ride.

Monday, August 12

Being in the Legion, being a Legionnaire, does not make you
a certified commando by default. The Legion is not an “elite” fighting force in
the traditional sense of the word. Our tactics are those of the French Army,
our equipment equally so. We begin military life at an immediate disadvantage
due to our linguistic incompetence. We suffer collectively for the ineptitude
of one, even more so than in any “normal” army. Here, the group punishments
take on an altogether nastier disguise, encouraging cohesion not in the name of
dragging our flailing comrade through the mire with us, but rather in the hope
that the mass turns on the one and forces him back out through the gate he came
in. Some call it natural selection but, in the context of what the Legion
stands for, it’s more a contradiction of the fabled camaraderie rumoured to
permeate the hallowed halls of this mysterious institution.

Our strength isn’t found in being the fittest soldiers or
fiercest fighters, because we are not. It comes from being the most mentally
rustic and resistant of any armed force, anywhere. Every man has his breaking
point. Push him too far and he’ll either snap or just collapse in a heap,
refusing to go any further. A soldier’s limit is undoubtedly much, much higher
than a normal person, but it exists nonetheless. A legionnaire’s limit,
however? Word has it the search continues, but so far to no avail. That’s not
to say we accomplish every task we set out to do, but we certainly wouldn’t
dream of giving up until the order comes in to cease fire, down tools and
regroup.

A resource readily available to most legionnaires to help
them through the tougher times in the Legion is the “mafia”. This is a fairly
unremarkable phenomenon in any environment that hosts large multinational
groups of young men whereby legionnaires sharing the same nationality (or, at
the very least, the same language) gravitate towards one another at mealtimes
during the working day and for socializing after working hours. The largest
mafias at 2REG were the Chinese, Malagasy, “Russian” (ie. any Russian-speaking
Eastern European country), Romanian and Nepalese (believe it or not). The historical
Mafia Anglaise was conspicuous in its absence at 2REG, hidden as it was up in
the mountains and a long way from its spiritual home on Corsica where the
Legion paratroopers proudly flew the English-speaking flag. Chez moi, there was
but a mere handful of English-speaking legionnaires and, due to the contingent
spanning various ranks and alcohol-tolerance levels, solidarity was at a
premium. Oh, and naturally I was the only Irishman there. Time, it seemed, to
mingle indiscriminately.

Cut to Djibouti, November 2009. It was my first overseas
tour with the Legion. I had little more than a year’s service and was excited beyond
imagining. Arriving at the Legion regiment there, the 13ème DBLE, we found
ourselves sharing the base with a company from 2REP. Amidst their ranks were no
less than four fellow Irishmen, the first I’d encountered in almost a year and
a half in the Legion. I was dying to chat with a few lads from home, lapse back
into my old Dublin lilt and have a bit of craic in the bar kicking back and
talking shite. Imagine my surprise when the famous Repmen turned out to be less
than welcoming, looking me up and down in the same way a pride of hungry male
lions would eye a new cub, half in derision half in a chest-puffing display of
dominance and territory marking. I was expecting a warm handshake and a bit of
a chin-wag, but the fact that I came from a lowly engineering regiment seemed
already enough of an excuse to exile me. I thought nothing of it, having my
close friends from my section to hang out with. I’d gotten by without a mafia
of any sort for this long, after all.

Among the various activities planned for our four-month stay
was the fabled CECAP (Centre d’Entrainement au Combat à Arta Plage). This
3-week intensive training course took place in a remote area of Djibouti
bordering the ocean, combining elements of tactical training and firing
exercises with a host of physical challenges including an aquatic obstacle
course and the infamous “Voie de l’Inonscience”, a grueling obstacle course for
which the focal point was a gigantic drainpipe one had to climb up. I had spent
the first two months in Djibouti trying desperately to improve my upper body
strength for this challenge. You see, I was never the strongest in the arm
department. Running like a thoroughbred has its advantages in the Legion, but is
essentially not worth a thing if you’re left flailing half way up a rope or
hanging from a pull-up bar. I had serious progress to make if I was going to
climb this thing, and so I set to work.

When the day of judgment arrived, I was more than a little nervous and sure
enough, when it came to the giant drainpipe I was hopeless. On top of my
failure was the indignity of having torn the flesh off the backs of my hands in
my vain attempts to wrap my hands desperately around this pipe and drag myself
up. I was bloodied, beaten, bowed and defeated. Not bad enough that the vast
majority of lads made it up and received their medal at the end, but now
relations with the Irish guys had deteriorated to the point where a handshake
upon crossing them during the day was now unthinkable. Four months after
returning from Djibouti I created this blog. A few posts in, just before
deploying to Afghanistan, I received a delightful comment from the boys thatyou can see here. I probably would’ve become militantly anti-REP if it wasn’t
for the fact that a close mate from basic training was there and thus was on
hand to continuously offer small insights into the mentality over there.

At the end of the course, after the ceremony to pin the badges of completion on
the successful legionnaires, my platoon sergeant came over to me. “What
happened out there?” he enquired calmly? “Je ne sais pas quoi dire, Chef….” I
responded meekly. He chuckled, seeing my utter dejection at having not climbed
up a drainpipe in the middle of the desert. He put his hand on my shoulder and
told me that he’d seen me busting my balls the past few months in preparation
for this course. He then took his own medal out of his pocket and put it in my
hand, telling me that – although I couldn’t wear it on my uniform – I’d earned
it. Then, as he got up to walk off he mused, “In any case, there aren’t any
giant fucking drainpipes in Afghanistan”.

That medal has been one of my most prized possessions over the years, if only
because of the person who handed it to me, with his other hand on my shoulder. A
hand on my shoulder that I had naively hoped for from my more senior, higher
ranked Irish compatriots. If anything it made me more proud and determined to
interact with all my Legion colleagues regardless of race, creed, nationality.
Fuck the mafias.

Tuesday, August 6

If I’m honest, I might have expected more emotion. Not that
leaving behind my home of 5 years, my regiment in the isolated alpine foothills
with scorching summers and apocalyptic winters wasn’t an emotionally charged
experience, but rather how I was surprised the experience manifested itself less
as a sustained sensation and more in short bursts of euphoric highs followed by
gaping nothings. Every parting handshake spread across the past month or so sent
a brief message to my brain, telling it “This is the last time you’ll ever
shake this hand, see this face, hear this voice”, a message momentarily heeded
and cherished, before being unceremoniously discarded, seeing itself wiped
directly off the hard-drive, not even lingering in the recycle bin, if only for
a while, for old times ‘sake.

Navigating the final few weeks of my contract here in the
French Foreign Legion was a rather surreal affair. Surreal and extremely
monotonous. I was left to my own devices to an obscene level, the plethora of
time-tabled activities no longer concerning me as preparation for another
4-month mission in French Guiana erupted, exploded and cascaded all around me,
trapping young recruits and seasoned, wearied veterans in its eerie, stubbornly
incessant flow. Apart from morning sport, I was required for nothing save the
occasional consultation of my leaving dossier, whereby they’d request a
photocopy of some document before liberating back into the custody of my room
and laptop. Freedom appeared more of a prison than the daily routine of the
guys trucking onwards with their contracts. A seed of doubt for some, a cunning
trick worth recognizing as such for others. I didn’t waiver, couldn’t so close
to the end. My guns had been stuck to this far, not long to go now.

In spite of my differences with my platoon commander, when
the time came for my “official” leaving party, and I was called upon to step
forward and receive my parting gift, he spoke rather eloquently and without malice.
Irrespective of the presence of the company captain and other lieutenants, I
found his words to carry a sincerity all the same, as if – this close to the
end – it was mere water under the bridge. I graciously accepted my gift (an
ornate knife with my rank and name engraved in the blade), shook his hand
firmly, and attempted to slip back into the crowd. Alas, a speech was demanded,
and I accepted the challenge willingly (surprise surprise!!!). To paraphrase
the main gist, I stated my firm belief that, whether leaving or staying beyond
the five years, to each their own so long as you’re sure of your choice. I
thanked everyone present for having contributed to my time at the 3rd
company of 2REG, and wished them all the best for the future. Nice, neat, diplomatic.
I may just run for office one day!

That, of course, was the “official” party where we, the
soon-to-be-departed invite all the big wigs and superiors to bid us farewell.
The ACTUAL leaving party was held the night before and how the young legionnaires
(naturally charged with the mission of cleaning up after the corporals’ messy
arses) managed to render it presentable the next morning is a wonder. Knee-deep
blankets of broken bottles enveloped the tiled floor as the music and beer
flowed to almighty levels, the Corporal Chef overseeing the “safety” of the
event being quickly exiled to the corridor as we locked the door to crank
proceedings up a notch. Watching some of the videos the next day extracted more
than a few sheepish expressions, but no doubt further down the line those
expressions will turn from sheepish to sheer pride and nostalgia.

In the present, when the Friday arrived I climbed on to the
bus for the last time, pulled out through the gates of my regiment for the last
time, and instead of sleeping the entire journey to the train station my eyes
stayed wide and searching, across the mountainous countryside, winding down
through the various picturesque towns and villages. I listened more keenly than
ever to the almost unfathomably wide range of languages and accents colouring
the journey, soaking it all up, taking it all in.

I might have been slightly perplexed at the lack of
poignancy. Give it time…..

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L'histoire

Hi, I'm a young Irish gentleman who, in 2008, packed in a career (if you could call it that) in banking for a life (if you could call it that) in the French Foreign Legion. Join me as I recount my emotional rollercoaster and surreal encounters in this, the most enigmatic and feared (not to mention misunderstood) fighting force on the planet. This is the definitive French Foreign Legion blog.